I have always desired to be thought of as an author, as I admire those whose minds are able to conjure the kind of stories that are treasured by others, the words describing the waves of events flowing from the nibs of their pens like water from a silver sky.
For a while I was enamoured by historical fiction and attempted to write a novel as I plotted a few more. As my life grew busier and less of the dream I had grown used to delighting in, I however found that I no longer had the time to do the research any well-written story taking place in the past requires.
Currently, I am working on and off on another novel, taking place in a realm separate from our own. I find it is easier to write when one’s pen is untied, and yet my efforts are largely unrewarded. They say that one is one’s harshest critic, and I can myself validate all such claims. It seems, to one’s judgemental eyes, that nothing exceeds expectations. I like to believe it is because we know our own potential, failing to settle until it has been realised.
I was once greatly eloquent, but that was during untroubled summer nights when nothing disturbed my peace other than the earliest birds singing their melodies as the sun above a blushing horizon. Those days have passed, and life has engulfed me in chores. I hope that I one day shall be able to revive my ability to paint with words to delight my readers as I once did.
Until then, I shall try my best to balance studies and writing, finding comfort in the fact that my current path shall open new doors, perhaps one day allowing me to weave true words together and contribute to the literary collections by scientists. I am hopeful, although the path is long.